


The First and Last Deduction of John H Watson

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 02:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6636601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have to tell him, Mycroft.”</p>
<p>Knuckles whitened on the handle of the umbrella.  “Or what?  You will?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First and Last Deduction of John H Watson

John _saw_. He _saw_ as well as anyone, better than most, even. What he didn’t do often was _observe_. Observation was Sherlock’s domain, as were deductions. Observation took a constant effort of attention that was exhausting for an average brain. John could manage a good ten minutes of constant observation before he felt himself beginning to tire; his attention shifting, thoughts intruding: shopping lists, and things that needed to be done tomorrow and remembrances of where that missing glove could be.

That meant the deduction came slowly, over weeks, months even. It came with a breathlessness at the top of the stairs to 221B. It came with an ever so yellowish cast to the skin, unnoticed by all but a doctor’s eyes. Fatty deposits around the corneas for anyone who took the time to look closely. It came when he woke up in bed next to Mary, three o’clock in the morning and Mycroft’s words echoing in his ears, “Look after him… please?”

Finally, on a grey February day the week his child was due, John found himself arriving on the stoop of 221B as Mycroft Holmes appeared to be leaving. A pained violin just audible from first floor windows told him all he needed to know about Sherlock’s opinion of his brother’s visit.

Blocking the other man’s path, John said, “You have to tell him, Mycroft.”

Knuckles whitened on the handle of the umbrella. Mycroft looked down his rather long nose at the doctor, tone even as he asked, “Or what? You will?”

“Last month you said you’d always be there for him.”

“Isn’t that what _people_ say?”

“With proper treatment…”

The mild affect vanished entirely as Mycroft leaned down and hissed, “I’ve been seeking _proper treatment_ for the last six months!”

There was a car at the kerb, engine idling, and Mycroft took full advantage of the top step and general height difference to grasp John by his collar and bundle him across the pavement and into the car. Neither spoke as they drove, Mycroft gripping his umbrella and ignoring John completely, and then they were in the Diogenes Club and speaking was forbidden anyway.

Finally, they were ushered into the Stranger’s Room that John thought of as Mycroft’s second office. The room was empty of people, and two chairs had been set out with a small table between them. On the table was a silver tray with a decanter, two glasses, and three bottles of prescription medication made out to Mycroft Holmes.

John took a chair and scanned the labels on the medication before picking up the decanter and pouring a generous measure in each glass. He looked up to find Mycroft hovering nearer the door and gave a weak smile, “You may as well, one drink isn’t going to make a difference.”

The words seemed to startle Mycroft out of whatever had made him hesitate, as he took two long steps over and settled in the other chair.

As they gently clinked their glasses together something in the gesture made John pause. Mycroft Holmes was afraid. The thought unsettled him, deeply. Far more so than when Mycroft had actually tried to threaten him.

After a long sip of what turned out to be very good whiskey, John repeated himself, “You need to tell him.”

A grimace met the suggestion. “I didn’t want to worry him.” Mycroft looked pointedly at John, “He’s had rather a lot on his mind.”

“It will be worse if he figures it out for himself.”

Mycroft snorted, “He hasn’t yet.”

“No.” John took another sip and continued, “He can be spectacularly blind in some areas, can’t he?” 

Despite himself, Mycroft nodded in agreement, then tried to mask the gesture in another sip of his drink. Indicating the medication bottles with his glass, he said, “It may come to nothing, anyway.”

Softly, John replied, “Or it may not.” He shifted forward in his seat. “You have to tell Sherlock.”

“He’ll probably be thrilled.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Thrilled to be rid of his arch enemy.”

“Mycroft. Stop.” John set his drink down on the table in order to shift even further forward. “Just stop.” He took a deep breath. “We both know that Sherlock cares for you, deeply. Despite anything he may regularly say and anything that his great big inflated head may make him do. Just as you care for him. You’re brothers, right?”

Mycroft gave a weak, slightly pained looking smile at that. He took another sip of his drink, then softly said, “Fine.”

“You’ll tell him?”

“Yes.” Mycroft swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the cut crystal edges of the tumbler catch the light. He seemed to be thinking, so John simply gave him space until he eventually said, “When I do, will you come too?”

John pickup up his glass again, reaching across the distance between them to tap it against Mycroft’s again. “Yes.”

They both drank.


End file.
